


Exit Only

by Rathaway



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Everything Hurts, Gen, Nothing is okay, Soon To Be Jossed, Stiles and Scott breakup, Stiles and Scott friendship, i'm sure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rathaway/pseuds/Rathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott may be sorry, but Stiles has reached the point of no return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Only

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf; things would be going better if I did.

When all is said and done, Stiles is very much ready to hang up his metaphorical badge and leave it there for the rest of forever.

Theo Raeken is gone the way of the Dread Doctors; which is to say that he’s probably dead, not that it’ll be another century or so before they have to face him. Even if he is still alive is some sort of suspended stasis, Stiles is glad to know that he won’t have to deal with him either way. After all, morbid though it may sound, the chances of him being alive when the Dread Doctors reawaken is _extremely_ slim. That shouldn’t be a comfort, he knows, but it is.

One thing that he doesn’t find comforting? Being woken up around 3 AM because Scott McCall is incessantly tapping at his bedroom window.

Normally, of course, Stiles would leap out of bed to face the Monster of the Week at his Best Friend’s side, eager to jump into the middle of whatever fantastic and terrifying adventure has been laid out before them. But things have taken quite a dramatic change over the past several weeks, and Stiles Stilinski is no longer the same young man who sets aside everything to appease Scott McCall. Instead, upon hearing the _tap, tap, tap,_ of the other teen’s blunt nails against the window, Stiles turns over to put his back to the window and pulls a pillow over his head. He squeezes his eyes closed when he hears Scott’s muffled but wounded, “ _Stiles_ ,” but still maintains his position, rigid and uncomfortable though it may be.

After a few minutes without that tap on the window, or a noise from Scott, he makes the mistake of relaxing just a bit, and turning over onto his back to get more comfortable. Should’ve known, he thinks a moment later, when a shocking breeze of night air catches him off guard, and he suddenly finds himself staring up at the dark shape of his friend, only distinguishable in the darkness by the sharp shine of his red eyes. “What the fuck,” Stiles chokes out, doing his best to breathe through the anxiety that slams into him. His eyes skip over to the window, jimmied open, and lock—now nothing more than a mangled piece of metal—useless.

He’ll have to buy a new one.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says quickly, hands up and out like he expects Stiles to hit him.

Stiles is angry enough to do it, too. But he doesn’t want to hurt Scott. That’s the problem, he figures; he knows he has every right (on some bizarre level), but even after everything that’s happened, he still wants Scott to be _okay_ , and for some reason that makes him feel even worse than he did before. So he takes another breath, lets this slide off his back just like he has with everything else, and shakes his head as he leans back into his pillow, turning over so that he doesn’t have to look at the other teen.

“Whatever, man,” he sighs, “it doesn’t matter. Just get out of here.”

“Stiles,” Scott practically whines, “just talk to me, please.” He settled a hand on the other teen’s arm, but clearly thinks better of his when Stiles goes tense at his touch, because he backs the fuck off.

“Nothing to talk about,” comes the reply, just a minute later. “Once again, you’re sorry. Message received; now you can leave.”

“That’s right,” the werewolf says urgently, “I _am_ sorry—you know that, you have to.” At Stiles’ huff, he gets frustrated and adds, “Why don’t you believe me?”

The tension that settles over the room is palpable, because Scott knows he said the wrong thing, and Stiles is _furious_.

There’s only about ten seconds of silence before he completely loses his shit, and it starts with a laugh; a crackling sound, like expressing himself that way is foreign; like he’s forgotten how to laugh at all. There’s something menacing to it that reminds Scott of the nogitsune, and he feels sick with himself for even letting the thought cross his mind, but Stiles doesn’t let him wallow for long.

The first thing out of his mouth is, “That’s the fucking question, isn’t it?” He wants Scott to know how much—how much he—but all he feels is broken. So he looks up at his former best friend when he asks, “Do you want me to say it, Scott? Do you want me to tell you that I believe you?”

Scott’s expression is the very picture of horror, this time directed at himself rather than Stiles, who has sat up and pushed his covers aside so that he can stand from the bed. He moves passed Scott with purpose and pries the window open fully, before he jabs a finger at it. “You need to go.” His tone is firm.

When Scott finally realizes how serious he is about this, he moves sluggishly towards the window, reluctance in every step. He’s got one leg looped over the ledge before Stiles speaks up again, but it’s nothing that Scott was hoping to hear.

“I can’t do this anymore,” the pale young man admits quietly, and he continues on, not giving Scott a chance to ask what he means or object, “I can’t be the only person invested in this friendship anymore—I can’t.”

“You’re not!” Scott insists, feeling desperate with how badly he wants Stiles to believe his words. “I’m right here! You’re my best friend!”

“But I’m not, man,” Stiles tells him, and he’s finally looking at him full on, but he’s got this miserable smile on his face. “I stuck with you after Peter bit you, both because you were my friend, and because it was my fault you were even there. I faced down Derek Hale, I helped murder Peter, I nearly died—once or twice by your hand!—but none of that mattered, because it was always supposed to be you and me; Scott and Stiles, right? Against the world, or whatever the hell else came our way.” He shakes his head. “But it’s not like that, anymore, and I see that now. Because you’re always going to have to make a choice, Scotty. It’s always going to be me or someone else—something else—and you’re never going to choose me.”

“No,” Scott says, choking down the tears that threaten to clog his throat up. He takes a step towards Stiles, but his friend holds out a hand and takes a step back, matching him. But Scott goes on, “It’s you, man, it’ll always be you.”

Stiles swallows, rubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his sleep shirt and shakes his head. “No, it’s not,” he says with a tone of finality that fills Scott with dread. He laughs again, but it’s not the same menacing sound from before, it’s just quiet and a little sad. “When we started school again, I was _so_ worried that we weren’t going to last, you know? That we were going to drift apart and things would be different. But this whole time, I’ve had it wrong.”

“Stiles,” Scott tries to say.

“No, see,” the human teen goes on, “I’ve had it wrong, because things were never the way I thought they were. Rose-tinted glasses, right?” He shakes his head again. “But I’m done, Scott; one person a friendship does not make.”

They’re both very quiet for a moment.

“I’m just so tired,” Stiles eventually says, looking far too old for his 18 years, and then he gestures to the window. “And you still need to go.”

Scott stares at his friend, his own breath heavy in his lungs, and thinks about the past few years.

He wants to say, “You’re wrong.”

He wants to say, “It’s not like that.”

What he does says is “I’m sorry,” because he knows that Stiles is right.

The sharp snap of the window shutting behind him makes him flinch, but he’s careful not to think too much on it. Instead, promises himself that he won’t come back so long as he’s not wanted (even though it makes him feel heavy and weighed down to do so).

And if he stays on the roof until Sheriff Stilinski comes into Stiles’ room to check on him—well, it’s not like anyone else will know.

And if he curls in on himself and muffles sobs into the sleeves of his jacket while Stiles does the same in his room…

that’s no one’s business, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> So I love Scott McCall in fanfiction, and he certainly has his moments in the TV show. But, in my opinion, he hasn't been the greatest friend to Stiles, and it drives me fucking insane that it's never acknowledged in the series. So this came to mind a couple of days ago, and I haven't been able to shake it. So it's 1 am, I just finished, it probably needs some editing, but I'm tired as hell--enjoy.
> 
> If you like it, let me know. If you don't like it, let me know. I appreciate clean, reasonable criticism.
> 
> 8/29/15 - Did some serious editing, because it was very necessary.


End file.
